


Grilled Salmon

by amaradangeli



Series: We Made It [12]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Cooking, Episode: s04e20 Entity, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaradangeli/pseuds/amaradangeli
Summary: He'd had to choose between the safety and security of the base and the safety and security of her and he'd done what was demanded of him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Samantha-Carter-is-my-muse

He gives things a couple of days to go back to normal but people are hovering around her like bees to a flower. He waits until everyone leaves before telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she is coming over for dinner tonight, that they have some talking to do. She just looks at him with those big blue eyes and nods. 

Now, he paces his kitchen, fresh from a shower he had hoped would calm him but that has done little to help soothe his mood. He'd killed her. Or, he'd thought he had. He'd zatted her twice. As far as he'd known when he did it, that was going to end her. And he'd done it anyway. He'd had to choose between the safety and security of the base and the safety and security of her and he'd done what was demanded of him.  

And then he'd been faced with the possibility of pulling her off life support. He's glad he couldn't bear to let her go and had asked for more time because it may very well have saved her life. And it isn't as if he hasn't thought about how close a call _that_ was over and over again. 

It might have been three days ago, but it still feels just as fresh as it had in the moments right after it had happened. He can't seem to let it go. It's a testament to how lost in his thoughts he is that she sneaks up on him. He jumps when she sets her purse down on the counter. 

"Sorry," she says, "I didn't mean to startle you." She wraps him up in her arms and he lets her hold him for a moment before he snakes his arms around her and pulls her in tight and close. "Hmmm," she hums, "you smell good. Like soap and you." 

He can feel her nose tucked up behind his ear. He has no clue what to say to her. Hasn't since he killed her. She's talked to fill the silence since then, like she's aware he's uncomfortable. 

"I'm sorry I'm a little late. Traffic was terrible. I wanted to stop for wine, but I didn't want to be any later. Do you have any? I guess we can do without--" 

He brushes his thumb over her lips and she stops talking. "I'm sorry," he says, the one thing he's been thinking, the one thing his brain has been shouting over and over for three days. 

The rest of the conversation they seem to have with their eyes. She visibly wonders what he's sorry about, he knows he looks pained by what he'd had to do to her. She melts into an accepting sort of look of relief.  

He realizes there's so much they don't need to say. They both know where they stand.  

"Feed me," she says in lieu of the important things, "I'm starving." 

He smiles then though he know it doesn't reach his eyes, glad she's left the heavy stuff behind even if he can't, even for a minute. "I've got the grill going. We're having salmon. Baked potatoes are in the oven, zucchini, squash and onions are all cut up and ready to be put on the skewers." 

"You didn't leave me much to do." 

"You can skewer the veggies." 

"What you're telling me is you've pegged my skill level?" 

He leans in and kisses the smile on her lips. They work silently while he makes a simple sauce for the salmon out of mayonnaise, paprika, sugar, salt and pepper and she skewers the vegetables. He puts the filet of salmon on a piece of aluminum foil, slathers the sauce on it, then folds the foil into a pouch. They carry their respective offerings out to the grill and he arranges everything just so. 

He broods the entire time about what could have happened if they hadn't been so lucky. She's oblivious to his mood or is just allowing him to have it. He leaves her on the deck while he goes back in for wine – the kind they like that he always keeps a bottle of now – and when he comes back, he can see in her eyes that she knows what he's feeling and she's just letting him feel it. She's not pushing, prodding, or trying to change his mood, she's just going to let him be. He likes that. Likes that she's willing to just be with him, even if he's not in the best of spirits. 

He catches a glimpse of her, just standing there, her hair highlighted by his porch light and the last rays of sunlight clinging to the horizon. He's hit with a bolt of awareness that she's here and real and close enough to touch and she's his to touch at will. The desire to have her is a very real thing that's been building in him for a long time but that has been compounding exponentially since he took her down. It's like that moment made everything more immediate. He watches her out of the corner of his eye while they sip their wine. She stands there, unassuming, quietly, incongruously after several days of filling the silence she's decided to let the silence be.  

Before he can overthink it, he swoops in and kisses her. She's taken by surprise and she makes a sound in the back of her throat that does little more than spur him on. He backs her up against the railing then takes her glass from her and sets it aside. Her hands are on his shoulder blades as soon as they're both free and he likes that she's so eager.  

He has a sudden and powerful urge to be inside her and it surges to his groin. He thinks, though, that this isn't the night for it. She deserves his patience. Their first time together shouldn't be frenzied and rough and that's what he's feeling. He can feel it in the pressure of her fingertips, though, that she'd give it to him, if he asked for it. So he's not going to ask.  

Instead he takes what he wants in small measures. He raises his hand to one breast and palms it through her top, eating up like a starving man the little mewl of pleasure that she makes. Her nipple goes hard against his palm, he can feel it through the flimsy fabric of her bra and blouse and he pulls back from her mouth enough to look down into the shadow between them so he can see the puckered bud pilled up under the material, a testament to her arousal. 

Her mouth is searching for his in the space he's created, she's leaning towards him, lips parted, tongue just visible between her teeth. He feels her huffy puff of breath against his lips when he doesn't come back to her fast enough. His eyes flicker to hers to see them dark and hooded. This has quickly escalated beyond a kiss on his deck to foreplay and he wonders how he's going to get away with not following through. But he maintains, to himself at least, that sex isn't what this night is about. 

It doesn't, however, stop him from taking her breast back in his hand as he recaptures her lips. She sighs happily into his mouth and arches her back for him, offering her breast to him more fully. His other hand slips underneath the fabric of her blouse at the small of her back and caresses the soft skin there, his fingers finding the dimples next to her spine and falling into them. She presses her hips close to his then and he dances backwards to keep her pressure off his erection. He'll share that with her soon enough. Soon enough. 

His immediate objective is the warmth between her legs. He's got to feel it. With laser focus, the hand that was on her breast trails down her body and pops the button on her jeans, turns, and slips into her underwear. She's warm and dry to the touch until he presses past the seam of her sex with his finger and encounters her dewy wetness, just beginning. He collects the moisture and drags it up to her clit and massages it in circles around the little bundle of nerves. He presses his hardness into her hip and she shifts against him, bringing him into closer contact with her body as she widens her stance to give him more access to the pleasure center between her legs. 

He likes that she's not shy, he likes that there's no face-saving attempts about this. He likes that he can just put his hands on her and that she can accept what he's giving her and he hopes that she understands that it's as much apology as anything else because he doesn't really have all the appropriate words. 

He catches the hood of her clit just right and she gasps, stealing the breath from his lungs. Momentarily, they stop kissing so she can concetrate on breathing and he watches as emotions flit across her features and pleasure settles deep around her eyes. "Oh," she breathes, "yes," when he finds a rhythm that pleases her. Her head falls back, exposing the long column of her throat to his mouth. He attaches his lips to the pale expanse of flesh but is careful not to leave a mark. 

She grows very slick under his fingertips and it makes his mouth water to taste her. He imagines he can smell her underneath the charcoal smoke. 

When she comes, she digs her fingernails into his biceps and bites out his name, her knees turning to jelly. He bands an arm around her waist to hold her up. Her mouth searches for his immediately and she sucks his tongue between her lips in a practiced motion that goes straight to his dick because it's too reminiscent of a blow job to be anything but deliberate on her part. 

It takes a few minutes, but finally, her head rolls around on her shoulders and she looks at him with foggy eyes. "You didn't have anything to atone for." 

"I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for what I did," he finds himself admitting. 

She palms his cheek. "You carry around too much guilt for a good man, Jack O'Neill." 

He knows she's not just talking about this incident, there are other things, things that are going to make it difficult for him to love and be loved. But if ever there were a chance, if ever there were a woman, he really thinks this is – she is – it. 

He kisses her soundly and she gives as good as she gets. He feels her hands between them doing up her pants and he can't help but smirk. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and dries his hand. She watches him intently. 

"I'm hungry," she finally says.  

He remembers dinner on the grill. He checks the veggies, finds they're done and knows that if they are, the salmon is too. "Why don't you take the wine in? I'll be right behind you." 

He can't help but watch her go, watches the swing of her hips, thinking maybe there's more sway in them than usual, wonders if it's the orgasm that put the extra movement there, that loosened her up some. Then he turns back to the grill and gets the food off. 

In the dining room they eat quietly, he contemplates the flush in her cheeks, thinks about taking her to bed, thinks about just spending the night wrapped around her. Thinks about waking up next to her in the mornings. Remembers that what they're doing is supposed to be covert and that waking up next to her in the mornings is probably out of the question and tries not to get morose behind his glass of wine. 

"What?" she asks him anyway. 

"Is this going to be enough?" 

"You mean... what happened on the deck?" Her eyes widen slightly. 

He coughs on a sip of wine. "No. I mean, you and me. Is it going to be enough?" With everything they'll have to fight through, with the threat of death between them, he means... 

She reaches for him, covers his hand with her own. "Yes," she says simply. 

The way she says it, he believes her. 

 

 


End file.
